A Way Out
by writerofthelord
Summary: Season 9 AU. Months after Castiel's fallen, he finally runs into the Winchesters again, and there is nowhere he'd rather be. The brothers are happy to show their friend how to hunt. Ezekiel, however, isn't quite as pleased, nor are several other angels and creatures who are determined to get their revenge on both the Winchesters and Castiel.


The Bunker was finally starting to feel like home.

Sam and Dean had been living there for almost a year, already. They were used to the strange rooms, full of weapons and novels and everything all at once. They were used to the spiral stairs, the exact step that everyone seemed to trip on. Like the Impala, it had become a part of their life very quickly, and they were grateful that they now had other people to share it with.

Sometimes Charlie and Garth would come to visit, always staying for a couple of days or weeks before heading off again. Jody also came often, jumping right into mom mode whenever she did so. Sam thought she made even better meals than Dean.

Despite the visitors, the Bunker was often quiet. Sam tended to read and research in the library. He loved the old books, the way they fit perfectly in his hands, like they were meant for his eyes alone. Dean liked the couches and the chairs and his bed, because they always seemed to be waiting for him.

And then there were the permanent residents. Crowley, still stuck in the basement, strangely emotionally attached to the chains wrapped around his arms. Kevin, finally starting to accept this life and using it to his advantage. "If I can't go to college," he said, "then the least you can do is get me an X-box." Dean liked the X-box, too, so it wasn't like it was a wasted purchase.

It was a home. It really was. But the Winchesters still felt the supernatural all over. It was the protection, they figured. There was just so damn much of it. It was too safe. Too hidden. They felt as if, leaving the Bunker, they'd immediately come across something that shouldn't quite be real.

One night, Dean found exactly that.

He'd been missing bars. The Bunker had a lot of beer, but it wasn't the type of beer Dean loved. It was there and it was all too ready. Dean liked the desperation of going to a bar. It felt like a mission. He liked sauntering up to waitresses and begging them to save his life.

The bar, this night, wasn't the kind Dean usually sought out.

It was a pub, really. It was built in the 1700s or 1800s or something, with brick walls and a hand painted sign over the front door. A neon green sign, advertising a completely different name, hung just below the roof of the building.

"What is this, St. Patrick's Day?" Dean muttered as he stepped inside. Green banners dangled on the walls. Posters of Irish sports teams, people in leprechaun hats, they were all over. Cheerful music played on the radio.

"No, just O'Malley's," a nearby girl corrected; she was just entering, too. She looked out of place in her short, too elegant dress. But her hair and eyes were rough; she had calloused hands.

Dean smiled at her. "I'm Dean," he said, reaching out to shake her hand.

She glanced down at it and said, "Okay." She took his hand in hers and Dean swore he'd never felt such tough skin.

"Not gonna introduce yourself?" he teased, guiding her to the bar.

The girl moved slowly, her feet dragging along the floor. "I could." She slid onto a stool and her skirt hitched up. "I don't really feel like it."

"So you're on the run from the law or something? Can't share your real name? Eh, we've all been there."

She blinked up at him.

"Well, maybe not everyone, but hey, I'm not unfamiliar with the concept."

"It's not the law," the girl protested. "I just don't want to tell you."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Why the hell not?"

"I don't want to know you."

They stared at each other for a few moments, Dean's hand half up, half down, in an attempt to wave down the bartender. The girl leaning slightly away from him, half on, half off the stool in an attempt to escape.

"Fair enough," Dean finally said, and turned to find the bartender. "Hey, grab me a beer, will ya?"

He soon found himself leaning against the bar, a cold, slippery bottle pressing against the numb skin of his hands. The girl still sat next to him. She was talking to a man on her other side. Something about work. She worked at a library but wanted to work anywhere else. She didn't even really do anything at the library. She organized the books that no one ever wanted to read. She said she felt bad for them.

Dean felt sorry for her.

He felt sorry for himself.

He took another swig of his beer.

"I understand," the other man was saying. His voice sounded familiar. Kind of rough, deep. "Unread books . . . it's as if no one wants to give their stories a chance. No one wants to try and understand."

The girl leaned farther away from Dean, closer to the man. Her hair fell over her shoulders and Dean thought he saw a series of blue tattoos on her neck. Nice, he thought. You could never have too many tattoos.

"I read every book," the girl said, her voice soft, almost comforting. "Every one of them."

"Do you like them all?"

"No."

The man hesitated. "Why do you read them, then?"

"Someone ought to do it."

They sat quietly, drinking their beers, listening to the music. The pub was nearly empty, just as empty as their bottles. The sound of chairs creaking, the dim lights buzzing overhead, it all suddenly seemed quite loud. Dean turned to look for the bartender but he'd disappeared into the back room. Now there was no one but him and the girl and the man.

He begged them to speak again.

The girl said, "I'd like to hear your story," and she stood up. She bent over to straighten her skirt. Her rough hands tugged at the hem. The man was only a blur to Dean – he was dizzy from the drinking – but he could see tousled dark hair and blue, blue eyes. The man was glancing down at the girl, probably admiring her body.

"You have nice tattoos," he said, and Dean realized that there were more tattoos, running along the girl's legs. He wondered if the blue he saw was really only the strange shapes that painted the girl's skin. If the blue was merely a reflection in the man's eyes.

"Thanks." The girl gathered up her purse and reached for the man. Her hands looked too rough on the man's bony arm. "They tell my story. They could tell your story too, if you want."

"Alright."

And then they were walking out the door, two hazy figures, disappearing into the dark night. Dean blinked after them, wondering where the hell they were headed. They were probably going to climb into bed with each other and the man would trace the girl's tattoos and the girl would press her rough hands into the man's bones and they'd do this all night until they were a part of each other.

Dean sighed and stumbled off of his stool. The drink was starting to wear off. He hadn't had that much. He'd just been too sad, really, thinking about how his own damn story was in a book series and still, no one seemed to care.

"Really appreciate your thoughtfulness," he grunted. He staggered towards the door and let it sweep him into the lonely street.

It was possibly even more quiet out there. He knew, really, that there were thousands of other people who were all saying words to each other and they were all probably staring out their windows because they hated the light pollution and were trying to imagine what stars looked like and they wouldn't notice him at all, lingering beneath streetlamps and wondering if his skin was always that pale or if it was just the light.

God, he needed to get back to the Bunker.

He was heading down the street, straight down the middle, watching his feet move. He wondered if he'd even notice if a car happened to come back behind him and tear him into nothingness. It was then that he heard the voices in the alleyway and he remembered. Right, he helped people. That was a good reason to get out of the road.

Dean made his way to the sidewalk and ventured towards the alley.

He saw a short skirt and blue tattoos and rough hands, and they were all around and over and in the man. The man's eyes were blue and they seemed to be bleeding into the tattoos and they were becoming all a part of each other. Dean had never been one to miss out on porn, and anyways, he still hadn't heard their stories. He slipped into the alley and lingered behind a dumpster.

"It's been way too long since I've had sex," he said to himself under his breath, scoffing. His breathing came out blue in the cool night air. He was sharing it with them, he realized. All that air, all that blue. "Man. Blue's not that good a color."

"Oh, I disagree. It's my favorite."

Dean looked up, startled. The girl had abandoned the man. The man was leaning against the building. His legs shook and his eyes were closed and Dean imagined he'd closed them for the precise reasoning that he did not want this girl staring into them and calling him her favorite. Dean didn't blame him. He liked his eyes.

"Well, I think it's ugly as hell."

"I suppose you would know."

"What?"

The girl glanced down at her hands, and they suddenly didn't seem quite so rough. They were tough, though. The hands of someone who could easily bruise up another person's hands. Make them bleed. "I already know your story, of course, Dean. Most of us do." She glanced at the man behind her. "We don't really know your friends' stories, though. Don't really bother with them." She faced Dean again. "I, personally, think we should. They sort of ruin you, after all."

And Dean realized the man was not shaking in that beautiful way that people sometimes did, after they'd had a taste of everything wonderful and it was all inside them and moving them and breathing with them. This was the shaking of a victim. Of someone afraid. Dean knew the feeling well.

"You're a djinn," he said, because this was the kind of shaking he'd had after having wonderful, and suddenly realizing that no, it wasn't wonderful, or maybe it was too wonderful, but whatever it was, it was horrifying and all too much and it couldn't possibly be real but it was there, and it need to leave. "Those damn tattoos." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Man, I've gotten stupid."

"Your friend here doesn't think so," the djinn said. She was holding the man up, now; he was too weak to stand. "Castiel here thinks you're brilliant. You and your brother. He idolizes both of you." She smiled sadly at the man. "Although, he does think you're kind of stupid for not recognizing him. He's also kind of sad that it's because you're drinking. You've got to drink enough to forget why you're drinking, is that it?"

But Dean was standing there frozen, everything in the world holding him in place, horrified at the fact that the only thing holding his best friend in place was the girl with the dragon tattoos.

"Cas," he breathed.

Castiel was limp and bleeding and there was no blue. There was too little blue. Hell, he didn't even have that stupid backwards tie of his. He was wearing completely different clothes and was apparently so different that he'd fallen for the tricks of this woman, when once, years ago, he could kill her with a single touch.

"I heard his story," the djinn said, her eyes flickering over the unconscious man. "And then I gave him another one."

"What is it?" Dean asked, because he couldn't imagine what his friend could possibly want.

"He's an angel again."

Right. Because Cas had fallen. Months ago. God, why hadn't he looked for him? That empty space in the Bunker, it was waiting for him, and the guy didn't even know it.

"He doesn't like it."

Now that, that was actually surprising. "What?"

"I don't know why. But he wants to get out." She paused. "I think he wants you to hear his story. You and Sam and whoever else cares. And I think he wants you to write the ending."

Dean didn't really think, after that. He was rushing forward and punching the girl over and over and her grip had loosened on Cas so now the poor guy was crumpled on the ground and making weird little wheezing noises and bleeding out on the ground because of course that's what the djinn wanted.

"Get. Him. Out," he growled, shoving the girl against the wall.

"You know how this works," she hissed. She struggled to pull away. "He's got to kill himself in there. That's all he can do."

And Dean liked knowing that suddenly, this girl couldn't get out, and she was trapped and bleeding because Dean kept knocking her head into the bricks behind her. "Make him do it. Tell him the truth, tell him I'm out here and I'm waiting."

"It's not like that would change anything."

"It has to!"

The girl stopped struggling, then. "You misunderstand me, Dean." She pushed her arm free and gestured to the man below them. "He's already doing it." She laughed, a kind of dark, empty sound. "Guess I'm a really horrible storyteller."

And she was gone and the alley seemed so much more open.

Dean fell to his knees at Castiel's side. He grasped the man's bony arm, squeezed it gently. "It's okay, Cas. We're getting out of here. And I'm going to get some meat on your bones, alright? Gonna get you a nice big hamburger and teach you how to punch me because hey, I deserve it. And Sam's gonna show you all those nerdy books of his so you can know almost everything. And you're gonna meet our friends."

Cas seemed to curl closer to him, groaning a bit as he stirred.

"We're never gonna fly, though. God, I hate flying. The Impala's right around the corner. You get to ride shotgun. Hey, I might even teach you how to handle the wheel. And -"

"Dean."

Castiel's eyes were open and he was staring at Dean and it looked like he had no idea what the hell his friend was talking about. Dean beamed down at him. "Cas."

"Dean." Cas attempted to sit up; he fell back, too weak.

"Yeah, Cas?" Dean stood and gathered his friends into his arms, deciding to ignore just how awkward it was to be holding his friend this way. It was only until they go to the car, which really was just around the corner. No one was out. No one would see him carrying his friend like a princess or something.

"I like this story," Cas muttered, nestling up against Dean's chest, his blue eyes flickering closed.


End file.
